Larry and all his mates had the homecoming dance, and soon the locker room was half empty and half again, and then just Larry and the center, Chuck Seebord, who had brought his suit to school and was lying in his dress shirt and his boxers on the wooden locker-room bench, his ankles crossed in gold-toed black socks. They had both played every down. Chuck pointed at Larry, and Larry nodded; it was the entire conversation. Larry loved the quiet room, the water still dripping in the showers and the hundred towels above and beneath. The air smelled like talcum powder and the mint of the trainer’s balm. Larry sat down and pulled on his old school loafers. He was sharply sad for almost a minute, and he breathed until it lifted. He was smiling. For some reason he couldn’t figure, Larry wanted to be the last one out of the room, but Chuck wasn’t going to roll out for half an hour.
Outside in the twilight the cold air took his neck, and he drove home and showered again, running the hot hot water on his bruise, which was now a blue shadow. He watched his hands in the mirror button his shirt. With his hair combed back and his face rosy, he went down into the kitchen and did a turn for his mother and father, pointing out the dimple in his red silk tie.
“Here’s a handsome young man,” Marci said, kissing her son on the cheek, “who smells quite good.”
“What happened to the life, Marci?” Craig Ralston said. “Play football all day and dance all night.”
“My aging parents,” Larry said. “The night of the prom their hearts were full of”—and he opened his hands to them—“something.”
His father came up and put his hand inside Larry’s jacket on his ribs, just a pressure. “Take a breath.”
“I’m okay, Dad.”
“Just one deep breath.”
Larry inhaled and felt his father’s fingers on his bones.
“It’s just a bruise.”
His father tapped the rib right where the fire was. “You still bend,” Craig said. “That would be broken on most folks.” He stood back and smiled. “More to the point, I happen to know Mr. Barnes and his curio store,” Craig said.
“Antiques, Dad. And I know him too. I deliver bubble wrap there twice a month. You can get the full prom report from him later, as much as Stephanie will confess. For Pete’s sake.”
“She’s a beauty,” his mother said.
“She is,” Larry said. “So many of these girls are.”
“Is Wade drinking?” Craig said.
“He’s driving.”
“Is he drinking?
“Not with me in the car,” Larry said. He pointed at his mother’s merlot and the beer bottle on the table. “You two behave. I’ll get the report on you.” There was a honk, and Wade’s headlights flared up the oak-lined drive.
“Romance awaits. Don’t stay up. I’ll see you later.”
“Nice game, Larry,” Craig said. “Have fun.”
Larry went out again into the dark and thrilling cold and said to the shiny vehicle, all glass and billowing exhaust, “The next thing. Good luck to us all.” He pulled the door open, and he said to Wendy and Wade, “Dear friends, classmates,” which had Wendy laughing immediately. “I saw you both earlier today at Oakpine High.”
“You are so full of shit,” Wade said. “Get in.”
“Despite that, I am glad to see you again.” They drove to Stephanie Barnes’s house, and they all went in and stood in the carpeted living room and listened to Mr. Barnes recap the game in a funny synopsis that featured each of Larry’s plays and ended with his number: “. . . and the question was answered when number eighty-seven plucked the ball from the waiting arms of the receiver and went forty-five if not fifty yards with the interception.” After every sentence Stephanie, in her strapless gown, said, “Dad, we were there, remember?”